Choose Me (39 page)

“Coo-ool!” Ricky said, taking his eyes off the football video game long enough to crane his neck to look at me. “I wish I
had one of those. Then I wouldn’t have to swallow those stupid pills.”

I laughed and ran my hand over his head.

“Does chemotherapy hurt?” Ricky then asked, his eyes back on the TV screen.

“Not really. It makes me a little sick and really tired, so I won’t be able to do a lot of things I used to. Like work and
run. Or pick you guys up and take you around.”

“How long before you get better?”

“Not for a few months. Maybe as long as six, it’s hard to say.”

“Stop asking so many questions,” Justin rebuked Ricky.

“That’s okay. He can ask me questions.”

“Whatever,” Justin replied, annoyed.

“Man, I’m kickin’ your team’s butt,” Ricky cried excitedly.

I looked over at Justin, who had set down his controller on the coffee table and was leaning back in the sofa.

“Justin? You want to ask me anything?”

He finally looked solemnly at me. I realized I was his age when my father died, but he looked so much younger. I remembered
feeling so old.

“Is your cancer curable or incurable?” he asked.

“It’s about ninety percent curable,” I told him honestly. “When it’s caught early.”

“That’s like a B.”

I laughed quietly. “Yeah, it’s like a high B, and a B is better than an F.”

“I got a B on my math test,” Ricky piped in. “I forgot to tell you—
touchdown!
Ha! I beat you. Bears win the Super Bowl!”

“Like that’ll ever happen in real life,” Justin said dismally.

I leaned back in the sofa next to Justin. “You know, one day, you’re going to be glad you have a brother.”

Of course he turned up his lip in revulsion.

“While I’m off getting treatment, I want you to do something for me.”

Justin lit up, though he was careful not to show too much enthusiasm and lose his coolness.

“Stop giving your mama such a hard time,” I told him seriously, then grabbed him in a half nelson. “If she calls and tells
me you’re making her cry, you and me are going to go at it like Mortal Kombat.”

He scoffed.

“But seriously, when I went away to college, I missed my mama most of all,” I said.

“Wimp,” he teased.

I wrestled him to the floor, but he got the best of me in a matter of seconds because I had very little strength left.

Later, when I dropped them off back home, Justin turned to me and asked, “Do you still believe in God?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Why?” he asked, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“Because the alternative is worse.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“To believe in nothing.”

He contemplated my answer, bunching his lips to the side, trying to weigh its validity. I couldn’t imagine what it was like
to believe in nothing.

During the treatment sessions, I passed the time with other men in the neighboring chemo chairs, and we got to know each other
very well, sharing cancer war stories and providing encouragement. We threw around terms like CBC reports, seminomas, teratomas,
and the names of chemo drugs like we were doctors in training. There was Dan, a guy five years younger than me, who was a
chemo cycle ahead of me. He had gone to my alma mater and was a social worker, so we had a lot in common. Then there was Mark,
who made the nurses blush with his incessant flirting and never lost his sense of humor, even after he was told the cancer
had spread to his kidneys and would require a transplant. When I told him about my screenplay, he said he had a brother who
was an agent, and he offered to put in a good word for me. I was always the only African American, and a couple of times I
got the predictable, “I thought Black guys didn’t get this kind of cancer.” But I learned that when there is a common enemy,
race sometimes takes a backseat.

The hardest thing was watching the men who had wives and girlfriends with them. Of course, I wouldn’t trade the support of
my mother and sister for anything, but sometimes I missed not having someone special by my side, someone who could go home
with me, lay with me, and wake up with me to face the next day’s battle, and subsequently, the future. But then I tried to
convince myself that it would probably be worse having one more female worrying about me, smothering me. And in the beginning,
it worked.

I knew Mama and Jade would never complain about driving me to my appointments and being forced to rearrange their lives, but
I couldn’t help feeling guilty having to depend on them. I knew Mama was seeing Mr. Stevens on a regular basis and that Jade
would rather be with Akil despite her protestations that he was not her type. In addition, Jade had the kids and her business
to run. On the days my mother did not accompany me, she would go to church, to pray for me while Jade escorted me. The third
and final week of the first cycle involved only one course on one day instead of five days. It was only the beginning of three,
possibly four, cycles. The apprehension of starting the five-day treatment cycle all over again in another week set me on
a collision course of depression and bitterness.

On the last day of my first cycle, it was Jade’s turn to come with me. As soon as Rachel, the infusion nurse who was hooking
me up, disconnected my central line, I felt sick and threw up, despite having had the antinausea medication. Jade, who had
been a nonstop chatterbox about the latest wedding she was planning, gasped and turned her face away. Most of the bile landed
on the floor, but some splashed on Rachel’s white shoes. I groaned loudly, cursing under my breath.

“That’s okay, Adam,” Rachel said sympathetically as she began to clean up my mess. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” Of all the
nurses, Rachel was the best, the most patient. She patted my shoulder but I shook her off and immediately regretted it. I
got up and walked to the bathroom to wash up. It was the first time I had thrown up; not a good sign.

By the time I went back into the room to apologize, she was gone.

Jade returned to her seat and began showing me more drawings from Kia and Daelen, her hands shaking. It was hard for me to
force a smile, so I didn’t try.

“Hey,” she said, her voice trembling as she blinked back tears. “What’s going on with you and Eva?”

I closed my eyes again and breathed slowly in and out through my nose, wishing she’d go away with the rest of the world. “Me
and Eva? There is no me and Eva.”

DURING MY PREGNANCIES
, I used to crave hot chocolate with marshmallows. Anthony joked that our babies would be born the color
of milk chocolate and covered in marshmallows. On the day Tony died, the day after Christmas, the first day of Kwanzaa, I
had gone to the cafeteria for some hot chocolate. The cafeteria had run out of marshmallows and a staff member had to go to
the supply room to get more, and, because I couldn’t drink hot chocolate without marshmallows, I waited. With the exception
of the day Eli regained consciousness, I never left Tony’s side for long periods, not even to visit Eli as he got stronger
and better every day.

As I walked back to Tony’s room, I saw Maya and Simone holding on to each other, and Anthony and my father leaning against
opposite walls—all of them crying. The doctor met me at the door as I tried to get through. He explained that Tony had a seizure,
and, despite their best exhaustive measures, they weren’t able to save him. Then he apologized, but I could tell they were
just words, a speech he had rehearsed in medical school while practicing different facial expressions, trying to see which
looked the most sincere. A nurse tried to usher me into the hall, telling me I should wait until they cleaned him up. I handed
her the cup of hot chocolate with the extra marshmallows and pushed her aside, my face daring her to touch me again. When
I took Tony in my arms, he was still warm, and as I held him, his body slowly grew cold, causing my own body to shudder. Even
as I felt his spirit leaving, I held him tighter, trying to hold it back. My father’s words came back to me:
“In the end, like in the beginning, we all belong to God.”
Remembering how I used to kiss Tony’s soft spot when he was a baby, the pulse beating against my lips, I kissed the top of
his head. I willed it to beat once again.

In my heart, I knew there were some things we as mortals weren’t supposed to understand and the death of a child was one of
them. I would never, nor did I ever want to, understand why that boy killed my son. Why he killed all those students before
turning the gun on himself.
Why couldn’t he just kill himself?
I thought angrily. Maybe God was testing my faith. Or maybe He was punishing me for Adam. Yes, Tony’s death was my payback.
God may have forgiven me, but the consequences of my immoral act remained. I played, now I had to pay. Now I had to take my
medicine like a good Christian.

The days following Tony’s death were shrouded in haziness as I went into automatic pilot, making arrangements to transfer
his body to Chicago, for Eli’s discharge and subsequent assistance at home, and for the funeral. On the outside, I appeared
to be the picture of rationality, the strong woman, a faithful believer who didn’t question God. Internally, I was deteriorating
slowly, day by day. When Eli broke down and said he couldn’t live without his brother, I told him he would. While everyone
cried and mourned around me, it was I who comforted
them.

It gave me a little comfort knowing that Tony was saved the year before, but it wasn’t enough to smother the pain of what
his loss would mean in my life. Everyone said it would, with time. But I knew my wounds would not be healed with bandages
or medicine or time, I didn’t care what anyone said. I knew that every time I looked at his pictures, every year on his birthday,
whenever I thought of him, I would be reminded that he was dead and he would never graduate or marry or give me grandchildren
or grow old. And I knew these things only had merit in this temporary world we called life. I knew they were insignificant
things compared to the greater glory, but he was my son and I wanted to hold on to my memories of him, the dear things I would
never have, for as long as I could. I knew no matter what, there would always be a hole in my heart.

At the funeral, there were family members I hadn’t seen or heard from in years, many of Tony’s classmates from college and
high school. The church was filled to capacity, and it seemed everyone had only good memories of Tony. I vaguely remembered
Johnny, teary-eyed, hugging me, his words of condolence undecipherable. Many of my coworkers came, including Dana, Rashid,
and the dean. I was so calm and quiet, I scared Maya and Simone, who tried everything to get me to talk. Through it all, I
kept it together, even consoling Anthony’s mother when she collapsed at Tony’s casket. Tony had always been her favorite.

My Aunt Titi, who comforted me and Maya during the difficult years after our mother’s death, came up to me at the burial site,
after everyone else had long drifted away. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years since she left for Puerto Rico to care for
my sick grandmother. She was booked on a flight back to the island that night.

“Estoy muy preocupada por ti,”
she said, and at first, I found it difficult to translate the words into English in my muddled mind. It took me a few seconds
to interpret the words:
I’m very worried about you.

“Why?” I answered in English.

“I haven’t seen you cry at all,” she said, switching to English. “You need to cry,
mija.
”

“I’ve got the rest of my life to cry,” I said. I didn’t know why I had yet to cry. Perhaps I was too angry. Perhaps I was
afraid if I started, I would never stop.

After the repast, Maya and Simone offered to stay and help me clean the house into the night. I knew the minute I fell asleep,
I would dream about Tony, and when I woke up, his death would be more real. Since Eli’s room was in the finished basement,
we switched my bedroom with his, to make it easier for him to get around in his wheelchair. Thankfully, Tony’s room was in
the converted attic; I wouldn’t have to pass it by since I had no reason to climb the stairs. Eventually, I would have to
clean it, but that day would not come for a long time.

“Alex agreed to go to counseling,” Maya said, making my bed. “We found this husband and wife team who do marital therapy.
They both have Ph.D.’s and they’re Christian.
And
they’re a biracial couple, which is the main reason Alex agreed.”

I was scrubbing down the walls, something I hadn’t done since I moved in.

“Eva, did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you, hon. That’s nice.” Although I had my back to them, I could feel them giving each other looks and gesturing behind
my back.

“Did I tell you I’ve given up Zephyr and Ian?” Simone announced. “Cold turkey. I told them that I had to find out what the
Creator had in store for me. They both said I had lost my mind. But I told them, ‘on the contrary, I think I just found it.’”
She laughed.

“Isn’t that great, Eva?” Maya asked. “I think Ms. S’Monée’s on her way to getting saved.”

“Now, I didn’t say all that,” Simone said.

I should have been happy. My sister had decided to save her marriage while my best friend was trying to save herself. It had
taken my son’s death to make them see what was precious and important. Because of my loss, every mother at TCCC would hug
her child just a little tighter at night, every father would be less harsh the next time he had to discipline his child. My
loss would serve as a lesson to anyone who had taken life for granted. Death had a funny way of scaring people straight.

It was almost midnight when we finished. They tried to spend the night but I pushed them out the door. They knew that when
my mind was made up, there was no changing it.

Eli had fallen asleep on the sofa bed, so I didn’t disturb him. Still avoiding my own bed, I decided to clean out the drawers
of the dining room hutch. In the bottom drawer, I came across the sympathy cards and letters where I had tossed them as they
came in, without reading them. I couldn’t read the words, “I’m sorry for your loss” without reading, “I’m glad it wasn’t my
child.” I opened them one by one, scanning them quickly. There were cards from neighbors, coworkers, parishioners, Cara and
Rashid, even one from Johnny.